Not Made of Gold
by Traxits
Summary: She made him swear to keep Alistair on his feet until he could stand alone. Maker help him, Zevran will honor that final promise, even if it kills him.
1. Prologue: A slow dying flower

**Title: **Not Made of Gold  
><strong>Author:<strong> Traxits  
><strong>Story Rating:<strong> Mature.  
><strong>Story Content Notes:<strong> Major character death, graphic depictions of violence, language.  
><strong>Chapter Rating: <strong>Mature.  
><strong>Chapter Content Notes:<strong> Major character death, graphic depictions of violence.  
><strong>Chapter Word Count:<strong> 2943 words.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> She made him swear to keep Alistair on his feet until he could stand alone. Maker help him, Zevran will honor that final promise, even if it kills him.

**Author Notes:** So, some two years ago, I wrote the first piece of long fiction (as in, fiction that lasted more than a single scene) that I had written in a very long time. It was incredibly good for me, got me writing more than I imagined it would, honestly. On this piece of fiction, I was given a lot of feedback. Some wonderful praise, and some even better constructive criticism.

This piece of fiction was _Shades of Gray_, and after two years of working through all of this feedback and rereading what I'd written, I can finally admit to myself that some of the criticism I'd gotten was right: I had made some pretty basic mistakes. Finally, I am working on fixing them. I am rewriting _Shades of Gray_, and hopefully, I will be able to tell the story better this time.

That said, if you have already read _Shades of Gray_, I wouldn't immediately turn away just yet. I cannot say for certain how much of the story will remain the same in this retelling, as I am fixing some logic holes and trying to just generally keep everyone in character much better this time around.

**[[ ... Prologue ... ]]**

_(A slow dying flower in the frost killing hour)_

Alistair would be coming back to her soon.

He would have worked out his own emotions about this, would have come to terms with the fact that he planned on dying for her on the morrow. She stayed very still for a minute, and slowly, she forced herself to move. She needed no recipe to make a sleeping draught, and when she heard the distinctive clanking of armor outside of her tent, she was pouring it into his glass, just finishing everything up.

He made her breathing hitch when he tugged the tent flap down behind him, sweat still on his face from running endless drills with his sword and his shield, mindless movements that gave him freedom to think. He peeled off the heaviest of his armor, started to reach for the wine she'd poured, and she caught his hand, pulled him to the bedroll instead. He could drink it later.

Alistair's fingers slid down the line of her cheek and jaw as he whispered such sweet things to her, sweet, foolish things. She drew another breath, just feeling for a moment. He was swearing that she wouldn't die. That he would protect her. That it was his duty to protect her.

She hadn't the heart to correct him.

He was her Templar, and she was a mage. Her duty, and he knew it, was to protect him and die for him if necessary. It was in everything she'd ever been taught. Mages were dangerous; Templars were useful. If one of them had to die, it was always better for the mage to take the blow.

She didn't correct him. She just smiled at him, smiled and kissed him, and let him pull her close. Let him hold her and kiss her and gently peel her robes back even as she unbuckled the last of his armor.

(She let him tell her good-bye with his body, with his mouth and his fingers, and if she was the one telling him good-bye instead ... well, he would know later. He would understand when he woke.)

When he pushed into her, she cried out for him, and he whispered her name into her hair.

Soft. Sweet.

And when they lay there, breathless and staring at the tent's fabric, stained from the abuse it had sustained since Ostagar, she felt heat in the backs of her eyes.

She gave him his wine, drank a glass of her own, then surrendered to the darkness of sleep. When morning came, she dressed quietly, found paper and a pen and wrote him a letter that she couldn't quite manage to make herself leave, and slipped out of the tent. He was still sleeping.

She caught one of the soldiers outside by the arm and sent him to find Sten and Shale, to ask them to meet her by the city gates as soon as possible. And, after he'd done that, if he could release her hound, she would very much appreciate it.

_Yes, Warden_.

Because she was not a mage in his eyes, not a woman, not Solona. She was a Grey Warden, one of those destined to end the Blight. She watched him go, found her staff, and started toward the gates herself.

She stopped in the open field though, her head tilting back as she felt the warmth of the morning. The sunshine was on her skin, was skating along her arms and across her face, and she leaned into it, letting it caress her cheeks and slide down her jaw.

Her head tilted back to the city ahead, and her eyes eased open. He wouldn't wake for hours, wouldn't wake until it was too late, until there was no chance of him stopping her, no chance that he could tell the others what Riordan had told them. No chance that any of them— any of those who could read her— would see her and somehow realize that Morrigan had offered her another way. They wouldn't know that Solona Amell (not truly Solona Amell any more, not since she became a Warden had surrendered her past even more thoroughly than the Tower had taken it from her; she was Warden Solona now) was the most selfish person in existence.

It was better that way.

She took her first step toward the city, then another, but before she could get any momentum going, she felt the wind rushing out of her chest, leaving her staring across the field with parted lips as a narrow, thin figure walked toward her. Bright sunlight slid down that blond hair as easily as it touched her own, and his dark eyes were glinting, hard and rough as he raked them over her, one hand perched deceptively light on his dagger at his hip. Of all her companions to see her, it would be him. She swallowed, forced herself to breathe, and she gripped her staff a little more tightly as she met him. He was watching her tug on her robes and without a word, he dropped to one knee before her, pulled the dagger and cut the hem short, sliced her skirts until they fell just above her knee. The ripping sound was loud in the field, and she reached down to tangle her fingers in his hair.

It was the soft kiss he placed against the side of her knee that made her eyes close for a moment, made her gasp. There was no trace of tongue in the motion, only the press of his lips to her skin, and she shivered for it, shivered and her fingers tightened in his hair. He glanced up at her, but there was no smile on his face at her reaction. He simply dislodged her hand, and he stood, pulling her hand with him, pressing his lips to the back of it before turning it over so that he could kiss her wrist instead.

The wind blew around them, and she found her voice then, managed to smile evenly as she tilted her head toward him. "Zevran," she said softly, and her voice was rougher than it should have been. There weren't tears in her eyes though, so she counted it as a victory. The Maker knew she needed every victory she could get.

"You did not think you were going without me, did you?" he murmured, pulling her closer to him. She studied him, the way he was looking at her, the way his hand had moved to rest on her hip. Holding her. She pulled her hand from his then, placed it in the middle of his chest, and she pushed him back a step. She had to keep some sort of distance between them. She had a duty.

"I am going, and you are fighting in the second wave, Zev. You agreed."

"That was before you were foolish enough to think you were going to do this alone. Grey Warden or no—"

"It is my duty, Zevran. I have lived by my duties, and now, if it is required, I will die by them as well." She pushed him another step back, and his eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing. Her fingers slid over the buckle on his armor. She smiled again, this time a little more softly. "After all, it is only fair."

"How is it fair that you must go in there, that Alistair is letting you—"

"He doesn't know," she said smoothly, cutting off Zevran's words and leaving him staring at her, leaving him speechless for just a moment. She dropped her hand and looked back at the city. "He is still sleeping. He will sleep, in fact, for some time. Tell me, wasn't there some sort of story you were telling me once about final wishes?"

"You are hardly in a position to demand a final wish, Solona. You are not on your deathbed."

She was. She had been the moment she'd been Joined, the moment the chalice touched her lips and she'd felt the burn of the blood, heard the singing and the screaming and the cacophony of sound that was the darkspawn horde. She didn't have words for that though. Instead, she simply hummed, and she glanced back at him. "Even so, I have one. I have a single desire above all else this morning."

He turned to look at the city, his lips thinning as he pressed them together, weighing it, maybe. Weighing her words and her desire and the fact that they both knew he would do anything she wanted if she simply asked him to. They stayed quiet for a long moment, and she focused on the fact that she could see Sten and Shale beginning their journey to the city gates. They were gathering as she'd asked. Any moment and Rabbit would be bounding across the grass to rub against her legs, and he would be her final companion on this climb.

Was the Fade where she would end up? Did Grey Wardens pass easily or did they perhaps get trapped there, the taint in their blood corrupting their souls until the Fade couldn't tell them from the demons? It would be terribly lonely in the Fade if she was mistaken for a demon. Was she a demon? Had she, a mage, been born a demon only to have that destiny ultimately realized in the cup that Duncan had handed her, the chalice still glistening with the blood of the darkspawn and the saliva of a dead man?

She hadn't even paused to think before she'd turned it up. It wasn't the first time someone had given her something to drink that could end in her death, after all. She'd had the lyrium in her Harrowing, had drunk deep and long from it, until her head was swimming, and she could no longer hear the First Enchanter or the head Templar, and she'd woken to a dream world, a surreal land of blurring figures and the vaguest pain her head that never seemed to end.

In some ways, mages had a ridiculous advantage over everyone else when it came to their Joining.

"It will destroy him, Solona," Zevran said, and she focused on him, looking at him and managing a slight smile. Her eyes felt hot, her face was flushed, and she couldn't look at him long before she was blinking back the blur and making herself look at Sten, who had pulled his sword off of his back. He and Shale were speaking as they waited on her.

"I know," she replied, and her voice was somehow tighter. The words hurt coming out of her throat. She didn't let herself stop there. "I know, and it is my fault. I can't take that away."

"You could let him go—"

"Do you want to hear what I want or no, Zevran?" She reached up, pushed her hair back, and immediately he moved to catch her hair between his fingers. He braided it wordlessly, tight and even and designed to keep out of her face. He tied it with the band he'd had around his own hair.

That made her chest hurt.

"Tell me this wish then. Whatever could you desire from me on this morning?"

His voice was hard, tense and angry, and she closed her eyes for a moment before she turned to look at him, to face him. He was paler than she'd ever seen him before. She reached up and brushed the pads of her fingers against his cheek, and she leaned in close, very nearly kissing him. "I want you to take care of Alistair for me, Zevran," she whispered.

He flinched, his eyes darting away from her, but he didn't move. She pressed just a little closer to him. He had taught her this; he had honed her into this thin knife of a weapon and taught her to slide right between the ribs when she spotted an opening. She licked her lips, and when he was glancing back at her, she drew a breath.

"Please."

He made a low noise, jerking back from her, his hair falling around his face. He looked soft in the sunlight, dreamy, like they were in the Fade all over again, and she wanted to touch him, wanted to feel his pulse and reassure herself that this, no matter how surreal and how awful and how twisted, was real. He was here, and she would very soon be nothing more than a footnote in Ferelden's history.

Would they forget that she was a mage, eventually? Would they forget that she had fled her destiny only to realize that she was running straight into its arms? Did it matter?

He bit his lip, and then he nodded. It wasn't enough. She reached out and caught his wrist, pulling him close to her this time. She brought the back of his hand up to brush against her cheek, and her eyes closed.

"I need you to promise. Promise you'll take care of him."

He was quiet for long enough that she very nearly doubted her read on the situation. Then he blew out a breath, and he whispered, "I promise, Solona. I will take care of Alistair. Until he can manage on his own."

She smiled, her eyes easing open. "Thank you," she murmured, and she did move then, leaned forward and touched her lips to his. She reached into her waistband, pulled out that letter she'd written for Alistair and pressed it into his hands as she drew back from him. Before he could react, she was turning away from him, and she was heading toward Sten and Shale. Rabbit was bounding up beside them already, and all they were waiting on was her. She didn't look back at Zevran but once, just as she was slipping in through the gates. He was still standing there, in the field, hair blowing across his face without the band to keep it back.

She fought for what felt like hours within Denerim's walls, and the sun climbed in the sky, until finally, they were on top of the Fort, and the dragon was roaring at them. Her chest was swelling, almost ready to burst from the music that she could hear pouring off of the thing. The melody was wrong, corrupted and destroyed, and she knew that had it been right, she might not have been able to resist it. She still wanted to touch it, wanted to lay her hand on the flank of the dragon and feel its breathing and make her own body respond and follow its lead, but then it was roaring and Sten was shaking her, and she jerked back into herself, focusing on the fight at hand. She directed her companions the way she always did, the way they had long since learned to follow. After two years with them, she would have been disappointed in anything less.

And her moment came, blinding and bright, because her hound had the dragon by the throat, and Solona was casting her staff away, willingly letting it fall from her fingers during a battle for the first time in her life. She wouldn't need it, and, thanks to the fact that Zevran had hacked off the bottom of her robes, she could move. She could break into a run toward the dragon.

_In war, victory._

She jerked the dragon-bone dagger that Zevran had given her from her hip, flipped it smoothly in her hand the way she'd never been able to under Leliana's trained eye in the camp. Her finger brushed the inscription— Alistair had secreted the blade from her and had just one word, _Warden_, inscribed; nothing else had suited it— and then she was charging, and she had the dagger in her hand.

_In peace, vigilance. _

She slipped in the blood though, and she was sliding on her back, air knocked from her chest and gasping, and she just kept moving, sliding. She was under the beast, still struggling to shake off her dog— faithful mabari, faithful Rabbit— and Sten was shouting even as Shale pounded on the dragon's side. She was staring up at it, at the sensitive skin and the fact that she could hear its blood rushing through it.

_In death, sacrifice._

She plunged the dagger home— a certain artistry to the deed, Zevran had once said— and the dragon screamed, jerked, sending her blade only deeper. Then it bucked and the dagger laid it open, the dragon-bone blade glowing a brilliant blue from the taint in everything around her. There was blood gushing over her skin, and she was jerking just as much as the dragon was, screaming and bucking, and she couldn't let go of the dagger, couldn't do anything but feel the archdemon dying.

Then the fire was in her, under her skin and not just where the blood was touching her, not just where her flesh was hissing and sizzling, and she was sobbing, her breath leaving her helpless under the weight of the dragon as it roared and collapsed. She was dying.

No. She'd always been dead. This was her gift, her last redeeming moment when she could save everyone else.

Everything was too bright, and she could feel the fire anew in her, like something too big and too bright and too much was trying to force its way into her body. She wasn't giving it up though, wasn't letting it take her. Her eyes fluttered and she could see shadows, could see that blurring, lurching world of the Fade at the edges of her senses. She didn't want to go.

_In death._

She didn't want to go.

_Sacrifice._


	2. Yesterday, I died Tomorrow's bleeding

**Title: **Not Made of Gold**  
>Author:<strong> Traxits**  
>Chapter Rating: <strong>Teen and up.**  
>Chapter Content Notes:<strong> Mild language, alcohol use.**  
>Chapter Word Count:<strong> 6990 words.**  
>Author Notes:<strong> Thanks so much to theLiterator for proofreading this chapter for me! And hey, look, chapter one, and I have already massively departed from _Shades of Gray_!

**[[ ... Chapter One ... ]]  
><strong>

(_Yesterday, I died. Tomorrow's bleeding._)

It was warm out. Alistair slid to one knee, his hand cradling the narrow blade that she'd killed the archdemon with, that she'd killed herself with. The weather was warm and flowers were in bloom. He'd picked one just the other day on the march from Redcliffe to Denerim, had tucked it in the loose band that barely kept her hair out of her face. He'd been outclassed of course, because only a moment later, Zevran had sauntered up beside them, a bracelet half fashioned in his hands and flowers held lightly by their stems between his teeth as he finished it up. She'd been delighted, equally delighted with both gifts, if he was honest with himself, and she had laughed.

He'd known that it would be the last time he heard the sound from her, had drunk long and deep of it, had slid his hand around her waist to rest on her hip even as Zevran clutched at her hand and pointed out a bird that Alistair had told him the name of only a day before, and she had been happy for that moment.

He pushed a hand against his chest, his teeth gritting as heat pricked in the backs of his eyes. He was clutching the dagger too tightly. It made his fingers hurt, made him want to adjust his grip, but he couldn't bring himself to let go of it. _Warden_, he'd had inscribed on the blade only a few weeks after she'd come up with it, and never before had he hated that word quite as much. A low, strangled sound was in the back of his throat, and it wasn't until a hand fell to rest on his shoulder that he realized he'd been making the noise aloud.

He glanced up, and Zevran crouched down, one hand reaching up to brush against Alistair's cheek, wiping away— was he crying?

He hadn't been able to cry for her yet, but he must have been close to it or Zevran wouldn't have been frowning at him slightly, wouldn't have shushed him and pulled him in close. Alistair didn't have the strength to pull away from him. If anyone else understood this aching emptiness that had settled in the middle of Alistair's chest, it would be Zevran.

Even so, he wasn't someone for Zevran to coddle, wasn't a child in need of comfort, and he made himself straighten back up. He tightened his grip on the dagger in his hands. For a moment, the sheath was in dire danger of bending under the force of his grip.

Then Zevran's deft fingers were prying his hands away from it, setting the dagger on the ground in front of Alistair, and rubbing idly over his fingers. Alistair wished he could have hit Zevran in that moment, wished he could have tapped into that anger and dislike he'd managed to hold on to for so long. Maybe that would have made him feel better.

"Leliana's gone," Zevran said lowly, and Alistair looked at him before he dragged his eyes back to the field, where the body of the dragon lay. It was still hissing, the blood foaming and frothing when it came into contact with nearly anything, but figures were beginning to work on it, shifting the massive corpse to send the blood gushing into huge containers. Magicked containers, most likely, spelled against dissolving under the blood they were built to hold. Two more figures were directing them, and their cloaks were emblazoned with Griffons, were the same Warden blue that Alistair's was.

"The Chantry came and secreted her away last night. From what I understand, she is to oversee the reconstruction of the temple that houses Andraste's Ashes." Zevran's voice was even and steady as he worked Alistair's fingers, dispelling the cramps that had set in there. Alistair watched him work numbly, and when he still didn't say anything, Zevran glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. "She will be happy with that, no? A calling for her to work at now that her other is over."

She would be happy with that, and there was no doubt that she would rise quite quickly within the ranks of the Chantry sisters, especially if the quarrelsome spirit that guarded the ashes took a liking to her.

"There is another celebration tonight," Zevran continued, and Alistair almost could picture the expression that Zevran would have if Alistair did punch him. "The Queen has requested your presence. I think it might be politic for you to attend."

Alistair looked up at him, then back out toward the dragon. He could feel Zevran sighing as he let Alistair's hands slide from his own. He took the dagger before Alistair could reach for it again.

He shouldn't have let them bury her with her cloak. It would be much softer to hold onto than that bloody dagger.

"There will be wine, of course, and you needn't say anything if you don't wish it. Just sit by the Queen and nod when you are spoken to, yes? She will be content with that, I think."

Alistair waited for another minute, but when Zevran didn't move, didn't leave him, he nodded very slowly. Apparently satisfied with that, Zevran leaned back.

"Will Oghren be there?" Alistair's voice was rough from disuse. He'd spoken her eulogy, had nearly cried during that, but he hadn't spoken since, hadn't thought anything would be more important than ignoring the way words stuck in his throat and ached until he could make himself breathe enough to dislodge them. This wasn't worth the speaking either, but when it was Zevran— someone as wounded as Alistair was, and the bastard damn well should have been wounded, given that she wouldn't have done this had he not shaped her into it— it was easier, somehow. It hurt just a little less.

Zevran hesitated, and then crouched back down. His dark eyes were sharp as they raked over Alistair, and his lips thinned, pressed together. "Alistair, Oghren enlisted in the Denerim army a few days ago. Anora is considering naming him one of her generals, given his contributions. In fact, she is considering Sten as well. I told you this two days ago."

Alistair's brow furrowed. Two days ago, that had been... a day after her funeral? Perhaps. He couldn't remember. Everything blurred together with the wine anyway. The only thing marking the days for him were the pieces of the dragon being hauled away as they were bled dry. Soon, there would be nothing left, and it would be as though the archdemon hadn't ever been here.

It would be as though Solona had never died under it.

He reached for the dagger, but Zevran did not hand it back. His eyes narrowed sharply on Zevran, on the way that those dark eyes were studying him. Then he sighed, and he shook his head. "I don't remember. It doesn't matter anyway."

Zevran reached out then, grasped Alistair's arm and hauled him up to his feet with more strength that Alistair expected him to have in that narrow frame.

"Wynne and Shale left this morning, heading for Tevinter." He was guiding Alistair down the hillside, back toward Denerim proper, and Alistair didn't want to go. He didn't want to end up in the room that was too big for him, that he should have been sharing with his fellow Warden, with his lover. He didn't want to head back before he had to.

Zevran had apparently decided that he had to.

"It's just as well," Alistair said lowly. "Nothing left for them here."

That wasn't true. Wynne could have easily taken up the mantle of First Enchanter had she wanted to. Maybe she did want it; she'd had the same vision Solona had, after all, restructuring the Circle, making the Templars and the Chantry work together with the mages a little more. However, if they had ever discovered that she was possessed, even though it was by a benevolent spirit instead of a malevolent one, she would be killed on the spot. Perhaps it was better that she'd left.

"True enough. ... Alistair, Wardens arrived from Orlais."

"Saw them bleeding out the archdemon," Alistair replied, waving one hand idly back toward where Zevran was dragging him from. They wanted to be able to make more Wardens, presumably. Every Joining chalice needed a drop of archdemon blood to make it work, to give it enough corruption to risk death. "It won't take them long to finish it now."

"They are... determined, yes, but I did not intend to speak with you on their bleeding of the archdemon. They are from Orlais, Alistair," Zevran said, and he'd stopped moving, was staring at Alistair with those narrowed eyes. He said it like that meant something, like Alistair should know what he meant by it, and Alistair simply stared at him, his eyes narrowing slightly. For a long moment, they stayed exactly like that, Zevran's fingers wrapped around Alistair's arm, the wind picking up around them and sending Zevran's blond hair fluttering around his face.

There was no amusement in that face now. There hadn't been since she died, and so help him, Alistair counted that as a victory. He wanted Zevran hurting, wanted someone else to hurt from this, to feel something— anything, since it seemed like all Alistair felt was numb. So help him, he hadn't even managed to cry for her, not since speaking her eulogy, and he couldn't have cried then, not in public, not in front of the Queen and Zevran and Oghren and Wynne and Leliana. The moment he'd been alone though, nothing came. Nothing but tightness in his chest and a tension that wouldn't leave.

The corners of Zevran's mouth tightened, and Alistair reached up, his fingers stroking down Zevran's forehead, catching his hair and tucking it back behind one ear. Zevran didn't stop him, didn't avert his eyes the way she would have, but he sighed and shook his head slightly.

"They are Orlesian Wardens, Alistair. They represent Weisshaupt."

That Alistair understood. It meant they'd be requesting to see the Queen soon; they'd be asking for their proper place within the country. Asking for...

He felt something in him go still. They'd ask for Soldier's Peak. Soldier's Peak and that was supposed to be hers; it was the place Solona had fallen in love with, and so help him if anyone else was going to take that.

Zevran nodded slowly, and his hold on Alistair's arm tightened, making Alistair look at him again. "Good. You understand. Anora has yet to meet with them, Alistair. You could—"

"I can't. I am no leader, Zevran," Alistair answered immediately. It was what he'd said since the first morning he'd woken after Ostagar, since he'd woken covered in Darkspawn blood— still tingling where it touched his skin— and woken to Morrigan looming over him, one eyebrow arched like she had any right to judge him. The stench of death had been thick on him that morning, every morning since if he were completely honest with himself because that was what Wardens did: sow death. They had done nothing but kill and fight and push for this, and now that they had it...

She was supposed to be here. She was the leader, not him. It had never been him.

Nevertheless, Zevran was shaking his head and shushing Alistair, as though he was some kind of small child who needed the reassurance, who needed to be supported and told what he was supposed to say. Well. If anyone knew how to work a figurehead, it would have been Zevran. In the Landsmeet, it had been Zevran who had quietly offered the other option, the one neither warden had considered. That Anora could be left in her position and simply bought. There was no need to upset the nobles any more than Alistair had already managed— Loghain's blood had still been dripping from Alistair's sword, the rhythmic splatter keeping time as effectively as any clock. Both wardens had been horrified at the idea, but now, Alistair wondered if maybe there hadn't been some wisdom in that. Not in buying Anora, the idea of that crawled under his skin, but of keeping her in... Well, if not in actual debt (no Fereldan would keep a debt open for very long; it was a matter of honor to offer ways to repay them as quickly as possible), then to keep her thinking favorably of them.

Alistair's next breath was a little sharper. 'Them'. There was no 'them'. There hadn't been since—

"It is important that you speak to her," Zevran said softly, and he was guiding Alistair back toward the city, toward those empty rooms that were entirely too big for just him. "If you speak to her first, I believe she will be reasonable and perhaps give you command of the recruits she wishes to offer to the wardens. They," and he didn't have to clarify who 'they' referred to here, "had discussed this already. She promised recruits, not to mention basic supplies for Soldier's Peak and horses and dogs. I know how you Fereldans are about your dogs."

Alistair snorted faintly. That was a jab at his sleeping arrangements, maybe. Rabbit, her mabari, slept across the foot of Alistair's bed since her death. Alistair supposed the poor bastard was considered lucky that he hadn't been killed with his mistress, that he'd only had a broken leg and needed to be bandaged and taken care of, but... Some days, Alistair wondered if perhaps Rabbit didn't understand how he felt better than anyone else did. The dog knew what it meant to be left behind.

"She also promised some monetary aid for the keep, and I expect that you will be stubborn about it, but—"

"Whatever you think, Zevran," Alistair said, and he dislodged Zevran's fingers from around his arm. Zevran went still beside him, tilting his head slightly as he looked Alistair over, eyes narrowed and one eyebrow raised. He didn't believe Alistair, most likely, and Alistair didn't honestly give a damn. Zevran was the one who knew what they would need, and by the Maker, when had it become 'them'? He sighed, reaching up to rub his hand over his face. "You're coming back to the keep, aren't you?"

They hadn't ever spoken about this before. This was the first time they'd looked at one another and admitted, even wordlessly, that neither of them had anywhere else to go. They'd both thrown their lots in with her, counted on her being able to figure out where they were going, or in the worst-case scenario, had assumed that they'd be the ones that were dead.

"I might as well," Zevran finally said, looking away from Alistair and focusing on the dagger he was still holding. He flipped it smoothly, the motion as easy as when Leliana had done it. "You and her hound would probably starve yourselves to death if I did not."

His voice was wrong for that kind of playful jab. There was nothing teasing or affectionate in him when he said that, and Alistair glanced over at him, frowning as he saw how serious Zevran looked. "Rabbit would hardly starve himself," he countered, focusing on something that he knew he could actually answer. "That dog can eat almost anything."

Zevran looked back at him, and the slightest of smiles touched his mouth. "That hound eats everything he can catch. He eats more than most dogs, even in this country."

"All Wardens do," Alistair replied immediately, and he wished he hadn't just as soon as the words had left his lips. Zevran had gone still beside him, wasn't looking at him, but he'd gone so still that for a second, Alistair wasn't even certain he was breathing. Before Alistair could work up the nerve to reach out for him again though, Zevran had taken a step away from him, nodding slightly.

"That they do," he said lowly. "Listen, Alistair, do not forget this dinner tonight. It would be immensely helpful for you to attend."

_And don't be drunk._

Zevran didn't say it, didn't even mention anything about it except to reassure Alistair that there would be wine there, but then, he didn't have to. The words hung between them as surely as if Zevran had written them there. Alistair's drinking had gotten drastically worse in the past few days.

He nodded slowly. "I'll be there, Zevran," he said with a sigh. He held out his hand, wanting the dagger back, and for a second, he thought Zevran was going to hand it over, but no, the bastard just flipped it again, tossing it up into the air and catching it smoothly, before he shoved it between his belt and the cloth of his tunic. The dagger might not have stayed there if Zevran hadn't kept his hand on it.

"Good," he replied, and then he was heading back to Denerim, to the castle, leaving Alistair standing on the hill in the breeze. His cloak kept swirling around him, caught in the same breeze that had been playing with Zevran's hair, and with Zevran no longer talking, he could hear the shouted commands from the Orlesians, could hear them ordering the containers to be moved as parts of the dragon were bled out. They were definitely planning on making new Wardens. They were going to see Anora and demand only the Maker knew what from her for themselves. They would be depending of the goodwill the Fereldans, the fondness they all had for the woman who had saved them, saved their families and their country. The people would do almost anything for the Wardens, and if it got out that Anora had denied them anything...

His hand clenched. The Orlesians hadn't been there when the Fereldans had been told what price Wardens paid to end the Blight. They hadn't been there when they'd been needed. He wasn't about to let them get anything that was supposed to be hers.

* * *

><p>She was a legend. She'd been dead not even a week, and already, everyone was retelling her stories, making her bigger, making her somehow more, as though she hadn't been enough in person. It hadn't been so bad when Leliana had still been in the city. She always attended these celebration dinners, and she would carry a flute or a lute or something to mark her as the bard she'd once been, and someone would eventually realize who she was. That she was one of those who had traveled with the Warden, and who better to tell those tales than a traveling companion who had witnessed it all?<p>

And Leliana, Maker bless her, didn't embellish much. She told the truth, told the stories the way Solona had wanted them told, the way they'd all talked about from time to time.

Alistair reached for his glass of wine, his frown deepening. Several soldiers were being given a place of honor at this feast because of exceptional bravery, and how Anora had decided what made someone's bravery 'exceptional', Alistair wasn't sure, but there were just as many foot soldiers as there were commanders, so she must have had some relatively fair means of measuring it. Some of them who had only seen Solona a few times were exchanging stories about her with one another, and his mood must have been noticeable because it was just a moment or two before Zevran came by, dropped into the chair beside him with a flourish and interjected himself into the talk as smoothly as Alistair had ever seen him work.

He wasn't correcting them, but then, he didn't have to. The elf who had traveled with her was well known, mostly because he wanted it that way, because he took every opportunity he got to place himself in conversations where no elf would dare just so he could remind everyone that he didn't fit their opinions of elves. Alistair should have been amused by the way Zevran gave those back-handed compliments and made certain that it was widely known, without explicitly saying so much, of course, that the Queen valued his opinion. That she knew the Warden Solona had trusted his opinion. The sight of that anger and fear that inevitably spread across those noble faces was always comical.

However, Zevran wasn't running that game of his tonight. He was simply interjecting his own stories into the mix, telling them what he knew of her and how she'd really been. Alistair should have been grateful for Zevran's presence. He took a drink of his wine, and when he glanced up, he saw Anora looking at him, brows drawn and a very slight frown marring her face. Ser Cauthrien was standing just behind her, the Queen's right hand, stoic and blank to most of the people in the dining hall, but Alistair knew how to read soldiers, knew how to read the lines of someone standing at attention in far more armor than was strictly necessary.

She was disapproving of the way he was drawing Anora's attention away from the nobles sitting closest to her, and Alistair managed a slight, tight smile to them both. He finished off the glass of wine, and almost before it touched the table, an elven girl was leaning over his shoulder to pour him another. It was just another reminder of how infamous his drinking was becoming. The tension in his shoulders tightened, but he managed a murmured 'thank you' to her, and he stared at the plate in front of him.

Lamb and pea stew was sitting on the table, roasted birds, breads and who knew how many other stews were further down on the table, and Alistair didn't want any of this Fereldan fare. Maker's breath, he didn't even want to be here. He picked at his food on the plate though, and the moment he had a chance, he slipped some of it down under the table. Rabbit was leaning against his leg, still heavily bandaged, but he had finally stopped being sick every few minutes, and Alistair had thought it safe enough to let him sit in the hall with them, so long as he stayed out of sight. Even in Ferelden, dogs didn't exactly sit at the table.

He wasn't feeding him anything rich though, not after the healer— nothing short of the royal dogs warranted getting mages bound to the Chantry for healing looking after them, but Anora had been determined that this dog, her dog, would have the very best care available— had warned him against feeding the poor beast too much. The sickness would come back if he did. Even so, Rabbit chewed happily on the drumstick Alistair slipped him, and Alistair petted his head idly before he returned his attention to those sitting closest to him.

The soldier sitting closest to him offered him a platter, and Alistair took from it and passed it on to Zevran automatically without even a glance as to what might be on it. He was eating without thinking, mindlessly sating that nearly endless hunger that he'd had since his Joining.

"Ser," came a low voice, and Alistair blinked, making himself look at the soldier who had given him the plate. He was staring at Alistair's plate, at the sheer bulk of food Alistair was working through, with wide eyes. "That... is a lot of food. Are you well?"

Alistair didn't have a chance to respond before Zevran was leaning across him to offer the boy— that couldn't be right, he must have simply looked young; there was no way that a boy would have displayed the sort of 'exceptional bravery' that got one invited into this dinner— a wide grin. "Never eaten with a Warden, have you?"

The young man smiled in response, shaking his head slightly before he looked back up at Alistair. Alistair nearly squirmed in discomfort from how closely he was being studied. "No, sers," he said, and Alistair felt himself smiling faintly at the idea of anyone calling Zevran 'ser'. Clearly, it entertained Zev as well, because he was immediately laughing, one hand darting up to flick his hair from his face.

"He called me ser! Alistair, I like this one. Might I keep him?"

Alistair rolled his eyes, but his smile was tugging itself just a little wider. "I am hardly your keeper, Zevran. If you wish to keep someone, I believe you should speak to them."

"So, that is a 'yes' from our fine Warden," Zevran said immediately. "What is your name?"

"Luthanuel, ser," the youth replied. "Luth to my friends."

Well, to what precious few of them might have been left after this Blight.

The words hung in the air between them, and while Zevran plowed right through them to ask something, Alistair turned his attention away. The other Wardens were seated at a table across the room, and when he spotted them, he tuned Zevran and Luthanuel both out, his eyes narrowing and focus sharpening. They were dressed plainly, wearing doublets that looked a little worse for wear, and while that might have normally been a bad move to make when invited to dine with the Queen at a celebration dinner, it was better than them dressing up and reminding everyone that they were Orlesian. That was probably why they were speaking as little as possible, and Alistair frowned faintly. What exactly had brought them in the first place?

Duncan had wanted Orlesian reinforcements. Alistair could remember that. He'd sent letter after letter about it, tried to talk the King into it, and it had done nothing but get him killed. Each letter had increased Loghain's paranoia, until finally the bastard had snapped and nearly destroyed the country.

It was hard to believe that Duncan had been hanging his hopes on nothing more than two Wardens. Or were they simply the only ones who had stayed after the Blight had ended? Perhaps all the others, the dozens of Wardens Duncan had promised were coming, had turned back the moment that they felt that it was over. If they had, it made these two unusual, made them dangerous.

A sharp elbow jabbed in his side, and then Zevran was reaching over him to grab one of the bowls on the table. Alistair scowled at him, but Zevran didn't do anything but offer him a faint smile. "Did you want some more, Alistair?" he asked, agreeably enough, and Alistair wrinkled his nose at him. Zevran's smile widened, and then there was suddenly more stew in his bowl, and he rolled his eyes instinctively, sighing. He couldn't sneak the stew to Rabbit under the table.

"All you had to do was ask, Alistair," Zevran murmured, and then he was passing the bowl down to one of the soldiers on the other side of him. "The younger one is Adrien. He is Orlesian born and somewhat ignorant of your fine Fereldan ways," he added, and it took Alistair a second to realize that Zevran was talking about the other Wardens whom Alistair had been staring at. He focused his attention on them again as Zevran drifted back into conversation with a soldier nearby, trading some joke, probably the one about the human, elf, and dwarf who always delighted soldiers. The younger one had darker hair, almost black, and it fell loosely around his face. Alistair wondered if the Warden was used to keeping it braided in one of those fancy Orlesian styles that Leliana had been so clever with, but if he was, he'd clearly thought better than to display his heritage so prominently here in Ferelden.

He was smart then, or if nothing else, maybe his friend was. Adrien was laughing, soft and low, as he leaned across the table, clearly making a good impression on the others sitting immediately around him. Alistair almost wished he wasn't; he wished that the Orlesian was managing to stir up nothing but anger and violence just so Alistair would have had an excuse to get into a fight, punch him square in the middle of that pretty face.

"From what I understand," Zevran added, looking at Alistair once more, "he is the one who will be petitioning Queen Anora later this evening. He has requested an audience."

Alistair nodded slowly, brow furrowing. Getting an audience with the Queen only meant one thing: they were planning on requesting control of the Wardens. They were going to ask that they be allowed to rebuild the Wardens here in Ferelden. They were going to ask for Soldier's Peak.

"However, the older one, Clovis, is apparently more prudent than his charge," Zevran's voice was pitched exactly for Alistair's ears, and not for the first time, Alistair wondered how he managed that. It must have been some kind of Crow training, and he could only smile faintly at the idea of a younger Zevran sitting still for any sort of lessons. "He will not be attending the audience this evening. It is interesting, no? That they have some sort of disagreement on when to approach whatever it is they plan on asking from the lovely lady?"

Interesting, but it didn't matter. Alistair's gaze cut over to the older man sitting beside Adrien. Unlike Adrien's doublet, which looked as though he might have borrowed it because it didn't quite fit him properly, Clovis's doublet fit perfectly. It was just as worn as Adrien's though, just as old looking, and in a flash, Alistair realized he must have put Adrien in one of his older doublets. Perhaps Adrien didn't keep anything but Orlesian clothing. Clovis didn't appear to be Orlesian, not with those heavier set features and the sheer rugged aspect around him. He looked like a man who had lived through a war... several wars, in fact.

"He is an Anders, you know," Zevran said, and he was moving food around on his plate without actually eating anything. In fact, Alistair wasn't certain he had seen Zevran eat anything here at this dinner, and Rabbit was shifting suspiciously, wedging himself in between Alistair and Zevran. Bastard elf was probably slipping him his food. Alistair would have to make certain not to feed Rabbit any more than he already had. He hardly wanted to spend the night cleaning up the dog's sick from the bedding.

"He's from the Anderfels?" Alistair asked, but he could see that. There was something untamed and feral about Clovis, something that said Alistair would really prefer not to fight him, honestly.

"It is what the serving girls have told me. I have not had the pleasure of speaking to him myself, and there is something funny about that, actually. They have not spoken to any of us."

It was the way Zevran said 'us' that made Alistair glance over at him, and he frowned at the way Zevran was looking at him, one eyebrow raised and a faintly wry smile on his lips. He meant any of those who had traveled with Solona then. It was the only thing that he could have meant when he looked that damn smug and wounded all at once. Alistair nodded slightly. That was unusual. He'd have expected the Wardens to speak to him first at the very least.

He wasn't planning on allowing Adrien to see Anora before he did, so it didn't matter that they hadn't spoken to him. He focused back on the food in front of him, and he ate mechanically, eating more because he knew he was supposed to, because he needed it to soak up the wine that he couldn't seem to stop drinking too quickly. The last thing he needed was to be drunk when he spoke to Anora.

He had just cleared his bowl when Anora stood, and that motion was all the entire dining hall needed to go silent. She stood slowly, the motion hinting at a grace that most women didn't have, but Alistair recognized the weariness in her eyes, in the way she kept a few fingers on the table to balance herself. She was as exhausted as all of them, as well she should have been. She had donned her father's armor same as the rest of them, had given the speech and plunged into the fight to drive the darkspawn back out of Denerim. She had bled for her country, as a Queen should. She didn't have to do anything as crude as clear her throat; instead, she offered the hall a warm smile.

"All of you here have been invited to this dinner because of the courage you showed in defending our country. It pains me to think that I might need to ask more of you, but I feel that I must. If there is anything we should learn from these past events," and her voice cracked very slightly; Alistair wasn't even certain that he'd heard it, maybe he'd simply imagined it, "it is that we owe the Grey Wardens our lives. We owe them the support of Fereldan blood and Fereldan land because without them— without the Fereldan Warden who sacrificed her life for all of us— it is likely there wouldn't a Ferelden at all to pledge any sort of support to their order. Ferelden will not be unprepared for the next Blight. Never again will we force ourselves to be so close to dependent on foreign nations accompanying the Wardens into our country." She squared her shoulders, leaning back just slightly as she lifted her goblet with a wider smile.

"We have a Fereldan Warden sitting here in this hall with us," she said, motioning with her glass, and something cold began to trickle down Alistair's back. Suddenly, the stew was sitting too heavily in his stomach, and he wished vaguely that he hadn't eaten anything at all. "A brave man who traveled alongside Warden Solona, who helped teach her and shape her into the Warden who could save us. I can think of no other man to take over the training of more Wardens within Ferelden. Grey Warden Alistair," she said, and she looked at him expectantly. He was frozen though, unable to breathe until Zevran's ground that damned-near-edged heel on the top of Alistair's foot. He lurched unsteadily to his feet, and Anora's smile stayed exactly in place, as though perhaps she had painted it on. "Alistair," she repeated, and he dipped automatically in half a bow to her, "I have ten men from the guard who have asked to join your brotherhood. Will you take them?"

For less than a second, Alistair wasn't sure he could manage to speak at all. Then that damned heel dug into his foot again, and he sucked in a breath and he managed, "Of course, your Majesty." His voice was low, tenser than he'd expected, but Anora simply nodded, inclining her head toward him just a bit.

"Very well. Then Warden-Commander Alistair," and for a second, her eyes snapped to the other two Wardens in the room, daring them to argue with her, perhaps, "you will need a place to train—"

"Soldier's Peak," he said immediately, and he realized too late that he had just cut off the Queen in the middle of her speech. He felt the pressure of Zevran's foot let up, but he didn't dare look at him. He didn't want to see if he just fouled this up more than he'd intended. "Please, excuse me, your Majesty," he said, and his voice had managed to tighten further. His throat was aching. "Soldier's Peak has traditionally been held by the Wardens though, and..." And Solona had fallen in love with it, had spent hours talking about what it would be like to live there on those cliffs, the order being rebuilt all around her.

Alistair failed to protect her; she had taken that choice away from him without so much as a by-your-leave, but he could damned well claim her home.

Anora must have seen something in his face that told her why he wanted it so badly, because the smile she gave him was nearly sad. "Soldier's Peak it is then, Warden-Commander," she said softly. "As I said, I have ten men from the guard who have requested to join you. I will also supply you with horses and dogs and basic supplies, as previously agreed." She studied him for another moment, and then her attention shifted to the room around them. She lowered her goblet slowly to the table, and it seemed like the entire room watched her move, like the room took a breath only when her goblet touched the table with a soft 'clink'. She straightened back up, squaring her shoulders and smiling at them all. "And I would like to ask that any of you here tonight consider joining our Wardens as well."

She must have had a longer speech prepared, something that was no doubt stirring and patriotic while inspiring every man to their fullest potential, but she didn't need it. No sooner than she'd gotten those words out than Alistair felt the soldier beside him— Luth— moving to shove his chair back and push himself up to stand.

"I would like to accompany you, Warden-Commander," he said immediately, and Alistair stared down at him. There was nothing but brightness in Luthanuel's eyes, nothing but eager pleasure and the rush of excitement that came from surviving a battle you knew all too well that you were supposed to die in. The poor fool was still riding a high from their victory, no doubt. Before Alistair could argue, could ask him to think about what he was agreeing to, more men and women were standing, pushing their chairs back and wordlessly looking at him. He met their gazes for a moment, and he shifted his foot before Zevran could drive his heel into it again.

The motion caused a very slight snort from Zevran, and Alistair swallowed. His tongue felt thick, clumsy in his mouth, like it didn't fit properly anymore, not when his mouth was so dry, and his chest ached, lungs struggling just to get enough air that he could think. He nodded slowly, and when his lips parted, he didn't remember deciding to say anything, but words still tumbled out of him. "I would be honored."

It was a practiced response, a response that he shouldn't have given any of them. They were all idiots for wanting to do this, wanting to come into an order that demanded everything.

Solona would have been pleased. She would have been standing there beside him, flush with excitement— he could almost see the smile she'd have given him, could feel the weight of her fingers brushing against his hand as she would have grabbed him and leaned close enough to whisper, 'We're really doing it. We're rebuilding, Alistair.'

Funny how that thought would have given him a rush of pleasure too only a couple of days ago, and now it just left him hollow, left a sharp pain working through his chest as he met Luthanuel's gaze. The youth was so excited to join the Grey Wardens, to be a part of the order that Duncan had been set on rebuilding.

He looked away from them all then, his eyes darting across the hall to the other Wardens. Adrien was frowning faintly, but when the applause began to ripple through the room, he obediently joined in, returning Alistair's gaze sharply. Clovis, on the other hand, was unreadable. He simply inclined his head slightly, and he clapped as well before he pushed himself to his feet.

"Warden-Commander," he said smoothly, and there was no trace of an Orlesian accent to his voice. Adrien was twisting around to look up at him, eyes widening slightly, and Alistair felt Zevran's foot brushing against his. He wasn't pressing hard this time though, so Alistair must be doing things right so far. "We would like to accompany you to Soldier's Peak when you leave."

Alistair nodded jerkily. He had expected that they would, and he felt distinctly trapped with Clovis asking so publicly. There was no way Alistair could have told him 'no' without seeming unreasonable, especially since Clovis didn't particularly look like the Orlesian that Alistair had been expecting. A glance to Anora, and Alistair's attention stayed on her jaw line for a heartbeat, studying the tension he could see there. Then she was lifting her goblet once more, and the hall broke out into cheers, glasses being lifted and slammed together enthusiastically. No one sat until she did, and the moment that she had lowered herself back into the chair, people began dropping to their own with laughter and the same loud talking that had filled the hall before Anora's little speech.

Alistair was one of the last to sit, and when he did, he felt Rabbit pushing against his leg. His hand dropped low enough for just a moment to pet the dog, his fingers scratching behind his ears, before he reached for his wine glass. Luthanuel leaned over and took the pitcher from the serving girl who moved to refill Alistair's glass.

"When will we leave, Warden-Commander?" he asked lowly, and Alistair watched the wine fill the glass until Luthanuel pulled the pitcher away. It was Zevran who finally answered him, a faint sigh in his voice as Alistair worked on emptying that glass too.

"Tomorrow, most likely," Zevran told him, and he looked at Alistair for a moment. The wine was enough to make Alistair's head light, to make that terrible tightness in his chest ease. "Perhaps the day after," he added, watching Alistair drink, and then he was spooning something else onto Alistair's plate without so much as asking if Alistair was going to want more.

Alistair stared at the plate for a moment before he shook his head and pushed his glass toward Luthanuel. The youth didn't need more prompting before he was pouring more wine.


	3. Is there no one to watch over us?

**Title: **Not Made of Gold  
><strong>Author:<strong> Traxits  
><strong>Chapter Rating: <strong>General Audiences.  
><strong>Chapter Content Notes:<strong> None.  
><strong>Chapter Word Count:<strong> 5334 words.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> She made him swear to keep Alistair on his feet until he could stand alone. Maker help him, Zevran will honor that final promise, even if it kills him.

**[[ ... Chapter Two ... ]]**

_(Is there no one to watch over us?)_

It was, in fact, four days later before they left for Soldier's Peak. Alistair spent the first day sleeping off too much wine, and the next day, when he would have actually been ready to go, they had to pack up their crew. All in all, they ended up with twenty five men and women who had volunteered for the Wardens. Packing up twenty-five men and women took time, not to mention how long it took for the Queen to get twenty-five matching gray horses. The dogs were perhaps the easiest thing to get, and they came with a pair of handlers who seemed perfectly content to let the dogs roam without leash or harness, commanding them with little more than words.

Some days, Ferelden gave Zevran a headache. He would never get used to this country and its people, especially when confronted with a pack of dogs, each one the size of Rabbit. Zevran had convinced himself that Rabbit was perhaps the exception to Fereldan dogs. Solona could have enchanted him to be bigger, fiercer, smarter; he had ignored her laughing at the very idea, but now, faced with a row of dogs all just like him, some bigger, some smarter, some fiercer, he had to admit that he was wrong. Rabbit was not necessarily an exceptional beast here in this country; he was part of a legacy of dog breeding and training that no other country could match. The dogs wore their armor more comfortably than most men, and their intelligence was impressive.

One of them had watched a child trying to mount a horse. The poor lad had been failing because he was too short to reach the stirrups. The dog had watched for several moments, an unusual intelligence glittering in those eyes, before he trotted over to the horse and crouched down, letting the boy climb on him first before he stood to put him high enough to get in the saddle. It had been unnerving, to say the least, and Zevran had to admit that if the entire country was really like this, he could understand why the Maker had chosen to draw his bride from these people.

They were a people who took what happened and carried on with it, no matter how much it hurt or how much sorrow would come from it. They were the only people who could have shaped Andraste.

As for him and these horses, someone must have taken pity on him, for there was a lovely mare brought out the moment they were due to saddle up and leave. Unlike the Wardens' horses, she was not gray, but instead, she was the color of an Antivan gold coin with a pale, nearly-white mane, blonde and mild-mannered, or so the stable-hand had assured him. Zevran wondered if it would be prudent to admit that he'd never ridden a horse for any real distance. He'd once stolen one, and the beast had taken him a joyride clear across the city, stopping only when it had tripped over something. Zevran had been flung from the saddle and landed in a heap of aching limbs and bruises, but he'd been alive and that was all that mattered.

He'd never tried stealing another one.

Solona had not liked horses herself, probably because she hadn't learned to ride one (or so he assumed; suddenly, he was painfully aware of just how much of her story that she'd always laughed about when he'd asked and promised to tell him 'later'). They'd spent most of their time walking, hiking across Ferelden in some futile—

Only. It hadn't been futile. Of all their foolish dreams, they'd managed to do it. They'd defeated the Blight with a ragtag army of Dalish and werewolves and dwarves and mages and the Redcliffe guard, and she'd managed to bring down the archdemon by herself. The Fates had simply decided that was all she was good for and taken her after that. Some part of him wondered if that wasn't for the best. Who knew what sort of chaos and change she could have brought about if she'd stayed in this world?

The mare was quiet as he stroked his fingers through her mane, and he was watching the recruits climb on their horses, packs strapped to the backs of saddles and to the mules that had been gifted by the Queen. Most of the recruits were fair at getting on the horses, but Ferelden wasn't exactly a horse-country. If anything, it was a dog-country, and what struck Zevran as odd was how comfortable the horses were around the dogs. They didn't even seem to notice them. He sighed, his fingers trailing out of the horse's mane slowly.

"_Do not throw me, you hear, lovely lady? I need to make it to Soldier's Peak in one piece, and I'd truly prefer not to resort to riding double with someone_," he murmured to her, voice low and easily stroking the syllables of his home tongue. He didn't want anyone else hearing this particular exchange. Horses were not mabari, after all, and they did not have the gift of understanding speech. Her ears flicked though, and he drew a breath as he hoisted himself up into the saddle. It wasn't as awkward as he'd feared, not after watching nearly all the recruits manage, and he blew out his breath slowly as he reached for the reins. His fingers clutched at them, but before he could do anything, someone leaned in close to him.

"She'll probably follow without needing much direction," the stable-hand said, patting the horse's neck. Zevran raised an eyebrow, wondering suddenly if he'd something truly foolish, given away his inexperience with horses, but the fellow grinned and tilted his head toward another horse being brought out of the stables. "She's smitten with the commander's horse, you see. Follow that beast to the end of the world, if he started down that way."

Zevran glanced over his shoulder, and he could understand why. The horse being brought out was massive and black, and the stable-hand held the bridle easily as Alistair looked it over, hands pressing smoothly against the muscled sides and legs. That was the tenderest touch of Alistair's that Zevran had seen since Solona's death. The beast must have met with his approval because he nodded, and then he was in the saddle nearly before Zevran saw him move.

Alistair took the reins easily enough, nudging the horse into a walk away from the stable-hand who had been holding it. Zevran tilted his head, watching curiously as the horse moved without too many cues that Zevran could see. Whatever Alistair was doing, it worked though, because he brought the horse around to let him look out over the recruits, nearly all settled now. His gaze lingered near the back, where the two Wardens were, and Zevran felt something prickle down his spine before he twisted in the saddle to glance over his shoulder.

The two Wardens had someone with them, a young man with longer, dark hair that fell in a shaggy cut around his face. He was being helped into a saddle by Clovis, and Alistair had seemingly gone still while looking at him. Zevran couldn't figure out why though, because while the youth looked familiar enough, he couldn't quite place him.

That was unnerving.

"Swiftfoot here will get you to the keep," the stable-hand said, drawing Zevran's attention. He tilted his head toward Alisair's horse. "She'll follow Nightmist without too much coaxing, just you see." He let go of the bridle then, and Zevran clutched perhaps a little too tightly to the pommel of the saddle. He tensed his thighs to try to keep himself steady, keep himself from falling off her, but actually, she moved easily enough that staying on her wasn't too difficult.

She walked a short way and then settled, and Zevran drew a breath as he caught her reins and pretended that he had some idea of what he was doing. She stood docilely near Alistair's horse until it was finally time to go, and she fell into step along with all the others, without any work at all on his end.

At least something was going right. 

* * *

><p>After four days in the saddle, Zevran wanted to kill someone. Not because of the pain— he was a Crow, after all, and learning to ignore and work through pain had been a very important set of lessons— but because he would have felt competent at something again. He desperately wanted to feel competent at something aside from putting up his tent at night.<p>

He hadn't actually fallen off the horse (yet, some part of him muttered viciously), but he nearly had, particularly when Alistair would wheel around at... whatever had caught his attention. Luthanuel had taken to riding close to Zevran, and he'd caught Zevran's arm and kept him in the saddle more than once. What was interesting about that fact was the way Luth never seemed to indicate that he was superior to Zevran because of anything, be it his riding skills or the very simple fact that he was human. If anything, Luth tended to ask a lot of questions, wanted to know everything about the Wardens that Zevran had traveled with, and even deferred to Zevran's judgments when necessary. Zevran had indulged him a little by telling him some of the stories that he was asking about.

And there Alistair went, wheeling around again, and this time, his attention was caught by someone's voice coming up from the back of the line of recruits. Zevran had heard it too, had thought it sounded familiar, like perhaps he should have known it, but he couldn't place it. Same as that face of the youth with the Wardens—

Zevran's horse dropped out of line to follow Alistair's without any movement on Zevran's part, and he drew a breath as he saw Alistair coming up alongside the other Wardens. Their charge was riding near them, clearly as uncomfortable in the saddle as Zevran was, although he didn't look as though he were aching too much. It wasn't until Zevran came within earshot that he knew why.

"He is a blood mage," Alistair snapped sharply, and Zevran's eyebrows shot up as he glanced back at the youth. He frowned, nudging the horse into picking up her speed just a little, and he nodded to himself when it hit him who they had with them: Jowan. Solona's Jowan, the one who had been foolish enough as to attempt to flee the Circle with his Chantry-sworn initiate and lover.

All in all, he supposed that Jowan and his girl had been lucky, although Solona had seemed to think that the girl's punishment had been needlessly harsh. However, the girl had belonged to the Chantry to do as they wished, and as such, the head Templar had been well within his rights to send her wherever he thought she needed to go. That Jowan had escaped at all, had managed to use his blood magic to overpower the Templars and get out, was impressive.

"It doesn't matter what he is," Adrien retorted, voice lower than Alistair's but no less determined. "We have decided to recruit him."

Alistair's hand tightened on those reins— he wasn't wearing gloves, so Zevran could see his white knuckles— and there was a heartbeat of silence before he managed to get his voice to cooperate so that he could growl, "He won't be a Warden here in Ferelden."

Adrien raised an eyebrow, laughing just a little at Alistair's words, and Zevran tried to coax his damn horse close enough to wedge himself between the Wardens, recognizing what that expression had to be leading toward. He couldn't get her to move fast enough, because Adrien was leaning over, and he replied softly, coldly, "It is not your call, _Warden-Commander_. He can be a Warden in Orlais."

Zevran's eyes closed for a second, and he heard Alistair lunging out of the damn saddle at Adrien, and he cracked one eye open just in time to see them both hit the ground, gasping because Alistair must have knocked the wind out of him. He was still fighting though, reaching up and slamming a fist into Alistair's cheek, and so help him, then the fight was on. The recruits stopped suddenly, attention caught by the sight of two Grey Wardens, one of them the Warden-Commander himself, wrestling roughly on the ground, fists cracking into faces and wouldn't that just be his luck if Alistair managed to actually break the other Warden? They'd deem him unsuitable to command faster than he could protest, and he'd be up wherever they sent Wardens needing reshaping; Weisshaupt, maybe. Zevran had no plans to go to Weisshaupt. There was nothing in the Anderfels that even remotely interested him.

He slid out of the saddle, ignoring the sharp, stabbing pain that accompanied the motion, and he caught Luth's eyes across the tussle. An incline of his head was all it took for the youth to be out of his saddle as well and following Zevran's lead to break up the fight.

Catching a hold of two grown men determined to do one another bodily harm was never easy, and honestly, Zevran hadn't ever tried to break up a fight before. He'd always simply cheered them on, passing out wine and offering to collect bets on who would win. He caught the flash of coin being passed out of the corner of his eye, and he smiled grimly. It would seem that some things never changed no matter where you were, no matter how noble or righteous the assembled parties were.

He managed to get in between them, but the fight didn't stop until someone's fist connected to his jaw, and he snarled, reaching up to catch that wrist and digging his fingers sharply into the tendons there. Alistair was the one who cried out, sucking in a breath, and Zevran didn't let up until he'd hit his knees. Once he had Alistair's attention, he glanced over at Adrien as well, who was being restrained in some kind of hold by Luthanuel. The youth had managed to get his arms around Adrien's shoulders and was holding his arms locked behind him. Adrien's dark hair had worked its way loose of that pretty braid that was so popular among Orlesian noblemen just to fall over those bright eyes, and he was baring his teeth just a little, a snarl that made Zevran raise an eyebrow. He stared between the two of them, and then he dipped his head down just a little to look at Alistair, his fingers loosening slightly.

"I believe this can be settled later. Perhaps after we arrive at Soldier's Peak, no?" he said, and there was a smile on his lips, but Alistair must have seen the flash of anger in Zevran's face, because he only glared for a moment before he nodded. Zevran glanced back at Adrien, who was trying to shake Luthanuel off.

"This is hardly over," he snapped, and he bared his teeth at Zevran in a snarl. "He _assaulted_ me—"

"I seem to remember some provocation there," Zevran retorted, raising an eyebrow. Luthanuel was nodding before Zevran even looked to him to back him up, but he didn't get a chance to voice his agreement.

"Indeed there was," Clovis said firmly, and he was watching them all with more interest that Zevran was really comfortable with. Just what was he seeing? He tilted his head slightly at Adrien, who stopped struggling immediately, and his gaze cut to Alistair, who seemed torn between trying to draw away from them all and going perfectly still under the weight of that look. Then Clovis was looking at Zevran, and Zevran simply snorted slightly, offering the man a vague grin.

"When in other countries, I do believe it is Warden custom to subject themselves to the local law unless they are invoking the Right of Conscription, is it not?" he asked, already knowing the answer to his question because he'd watched Wardens subject themselves to Antivan law before, even when he was pretty sure they didn't have to, and when Clovis inclined his head slightly, Zevran's grin widened. "Well then, Adrien. In Ferelden, the local law for dealing with honor blemishes tends to be a fight to the death. I would suggest you reconsider before you push this issue further... Unless the Order here in Ferelden has drastically increased in size since last I heard?"

None of the Wardens spoke, and Zevran decided that was more than enough agreement for now. He tightened his hold on Alistair's wrist, shifting it just enough that his fingers weren't digging into the tendons there, and he hauled Alistair up to his feet to tell him lowly, "We do not need this, Alistair. You should work on keeping your temper—"

Alistair scowled at him and jerked his arm back, and Zevran let it go with a sigh. Wordlessly, Alistair stalked back off to his horse, and the recruits broke their horses back into an easy walk all over again, as though they hadn't just been passing coin and bets lowly back and forth amongst themselves. Zevran met more than one curious gaze— no doubt wondering why an elf had the nerve to interject himself so thoroughly in Warden affairs— and he drew a breath before he worked on getting back on his own horse. She nearly didn't wait for him, wanting to follow Alistair and that damn black beast the man rode, and he muttered lowly to her, trying to coax her into staying still.

Finally, when he could stand no more of her distracted steps, he snapped, "_Do **not** push me, pretty lady. I might not cook much, but I do know how to make a fine horse-meat stew,_" in Antivan. She blew out a sharp breath at him, almost a snort, but she held still long enough for him to get settled in the saddle. He stroked his fingers through her mane, and she immediately trotted after Alistair then.

That was to be the story of his life right there, apparently: being led around by pretty, hard-headed women who were in love with Alistair. His chest ached at the thought, and he reached up to push his hair back from his face. He should have tied it back, gotten it out of the way.

Next time he wouldn't indulge in the sentimentality that had made him keep his hair loose.

"You know she won't speak back, don't you?" Luthanuel asked, and Zevran glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow.

"She might not be a mabari," he said slowly, a grin spreading over his lips, "but she knows a threat when she hears one all the same. Most beasts do, after all."

"Mm... Are you implying what I think you're implying, ser? I'm afraid you turn too clever a phrase for me to keep up with," Luthanuel shot back, and Zevran laughed. It was bitter, a faint laugh that made Alistair tense. Zevran took a little more pleasure in that than he probably should have.

"Nonsense," he replied. "You keep up with clever phrases just fine."

"Perhaps. I don't believe I keep up with Wardens as well as you do though."

"You have not lived with a pair of them since you arrived in Ferelden either," Zevran murmured, and he dropped his gaze from Alistair's back. "Not that it particularly applies, of course. He was not so... volatile with her. They had other problems."

"It isn't just that Wardens are short tempered then? That's what I've always heard," Luthanuel said, looking over at Zevran, leaning forward in his saddle just a bit, his arms folded easily over the pommel. Zevran wondered if it would be as easy to get him out of the saddle as it looked. Then he shrugged.

"Perhaps. I think it is less that they are short-tempered because they are Wardens and more that the kind of people Wardens recruit are likely to be short-tempered. No nonsense allowed, you understand? They are all so serious and dreadfully dull." He let his voice raise a little, his eyes cutting back over to Alistair's back, enjoying the way he could see tension working under those shoulders.

At least he was reacting to something besides the Orlesian wardens. Zevran would take his victories wherever he got them. 

* * *

><p>It was midday when they finally arrived at Soldier's Peak, and Zevran felt a shudder dart down his back as their solemn line walked out of the cave network, having followed the vague marks that Solona had etched onto them the first time they had followed Levi here. He didn't think that anyone had even noticed them except for himself and Alistair, and even then, they had only found them because they'd been looking for them. Because they knew they were there and that they would be the only way they found their way to the Peak.<p>

A breeze was filtering through the courtyard— Zevran suspected that, with the mountain and the cliffside the way they were, the breeze might be perpetual— and there was more than one gasp from the recruits as they saw the keep. Levi and Mikhail were in the courtyard, Mikhail working on something in his smithy, and Levi herding a small group of sheep into a pen. Zevran didn't doubt that at least one, probably three, of those sheep would be gracing the dinner table before the evening was out.

He hoped quite sincerely that Levi had more sheep than that to feed them off of though, because with so many Wardens— only three right now, but surely at least half of their recruits would be Joined quickly— they would eat all of those in no time at all.

The breeze kicked up harder, and Zevran sighed as he reached up to hold his hair back out of his face. No matter what he'd claimed, he hadn't quite been able to make himself pull it back yet, and he'd caught Alistair looking at him oddly on this last leg of the journey. No doubt, he was still attempting to put his finger on what was different. Zevran was never more grateful for his pretty horse as he was in that moment, because Alistair headed toward the stables with no prompting, and she trotted right along behind him. Silly girl was going to have her heart broken if she kept chasing after that lovely stallion Alistair had.

Zevran thought it would be something damned fine for _both_ of them to remember.

He slid off the horse easily enough, and he managed to take her tack off all by himself, without needing Luthanuel to come over to remind him how it went or show him again. Then he headed out to the courtyard once the horse was settled, glancing back up at the keep again. He'd honestly never thought he'd stay in anything even remotely like this place for longer than it took him to complete his job and go home.

(Home. A sack of straw in some forgotten corner of the dorms that the Crow used, or Taliesin's apartment, the one Zevran had helped pick out. It was strange to think that he'd never go back to either place, never smell the leatherworkers on the ground floor of the place he'd secreted away for himself, the bolt hole he'd never shown anyone. How long would it have taken for the place to have been turned over, picked clean, everything gone as though he'd never been there? Did anyone in Antiva even realize he was gone, or did they simply think that he was dead? It didn't matter, whatever the case was, but it didn't stop him from wondering, didn't stop the sharp pang in his chest that was rivaled only when he thought of her.)

He went still in the middle of the courtyard, his breath stopping for a second as he stared up at the keep's walls. He couldn't look at anything but the scrap of Warden-blue cloth in one of the windows. It was faded now, paler than it had been when she'd ripped it from her cloak and tied it there, but there was no mistaking her mark, her sign for which room she'd loved. His throat tightened, and he couldn't manage to pull his gaze away, couldn't do anything but watch it flap in the breeze.

A letter from the dead.

A message from the grave.

In Antiva, it would have been taken down the minute that word of her passing had reached the keep. Here in Ferelden, it would be left up until it rotted away, until even the tokens she'd placed while alive had passed on, same as she had.

He blinked and jerked his gaze down, sucking in a sharp breath before he glanced over, looking for Alistair. It wasn't Alistair coming up on him though, it was Adrien and Clovis, and Zevran had to steady himself, had to draw another breath before he could manage the bland smile that he preferred to give them.

"We should begin the Joinings tonight," Adrien started, and Zevran pursed his lips a little.

"Such a rush. We should allow them an evening to settle in before we begin. In the grand scheme of things, a single evening will not matter that much, if at all. Let them rest. The Joinings can begin tomorrow evening instead."

"What? No, look, this is Warden business anyway—"

"He is more a Warden than you," Alistair snapped, cutting in without seeming to even think about what he was saying. Zevran wondered for a second if perhaps the Maker really was watching this, if he had a sense of humor that bordered on cruel when it came to his elves. "How many Blights have you fought in, after all?"

Adrien went still at the words, and Zevran prayed for just a second for strength before he reached out and brushed his fingers against Alistair's arm. He was rewarded with getting to meet Alistair's gaze, and for a second, there was something strange about it, something odd about the way Alistair lingered on his hair, falling back in his face again. He reached up, fingers brushing lightly against Zevran's hair before he jerked back, scowled at all of them, and headed into the keep, a swirl of dark blue cloak.

Zevran looked back at Adrien and Clovis, shrugging slightly. "I suppose this is what happens when one is one of the two Wardens who ended the Blight," he offered, and Clovis snorted, a faint smile on his lips. Adrien was less than impressed, because he simply frowned, looking sharply at Zevran.

"You are not a Warden," he said, and Zevran wasn't entirely sure if it was a question or not. He didn't think so.

"I helped end the Blight, Warden," he retorted, raising an eyebrow, "while you and the rest of the world remained safely on the other side of the Fereldan border. You will understand if there is some... flexibility in our ranks regarding those of us who participated in the fight and simple observers."

"Simple observers, hell," Adrien growled, and his hand went to his sword belt automatically, tightening until his hand was white-knuckled around it. Zevran didn't bother to flip out a dagger yet. Even as close as they were, Adrien would not be able to draw before Zevran. "We were stuck there. The damned Fereldans wouldn't exactly allow us entry to the country—"

"If you had really wanted in," Zevran said, interrupting and offering his very best vacant smile when he did it, "you would have left the chevaliers and the Orlesian forces. You knew that Fereldans would never allow an armed force of Orlesians back within their borders. Grey Wardens alone would have been allowed, even if you are Orlesian." He tilted his head back slightly, just enough that he could look down his nose at Adrien, fully aware of the insult the motion was in Orlais. "But clearly, since I do not recall Alistair sensing any other Wardens in Denerim during the battle, that was not exactly a priority for you. Joinings will commence tomorrow evening, Warden. I do hope you can locate a room on your own."

He didn't wait for words from either Warden before he turned on his heel and headed into the keep himself. He lacked Alistair's distinctive cloak— perhaps he could locate one of his own, learn to wield the damn thing as Fereldans did, a weapon and a sign all at once— but he probably made just as impressive a figure, if only because he was an elf, and he'd just talked down a human. Not that long ago, that could have ended in his death. Well, to be fair, not that long ago, he would not have been so blunt with it.

It was better that they focus their annoyance and anger on him though, instead of Alistair. Alistair, they could actually punish. Or send to Weisshaupt. And there was no way in the Black City that Zevran was going to Weisshaupt unless he had to. There was absolutely nothing in the Anderfels that would have even remotely drawn him there.

He headed through the keep easily enough, remembering the first trip they'd taken through it, remembering the shuddering horror and smell of old blood— he couldn't have actually smelled the blood, but he felt like he could, felt like it had to be there, especially after they'd founded the possessed Sophia Dryden and the insane mage Avernus. But this trip through, the keep was quiet and clean because Levi's family did good work, and Zevran found his way to where the row of quarters that he'd inspected the first time were. They were furnished now, new beds and bedding and candles and fireplaces stocked with wood, and Zevran took his time, knowing that the recruits would be a while.

They wouldn't know where they were going after all.

He narrowed it down pretty quickly to two rooms, one facing the courtyard and one facing the cliffside, and he knew immediately that the one facing the courtyard would be the better room. It was more prominently placed, but it gave him the best view of anyone coming into the keep, and he lingered in the room for several minutes before he headed back to the other one.

It was tucked away in the corner, the door so easily overlooked that it took Zevran a couple of passes to spot it himself, and when he went inside, he headed straight to the window. The room was on the ground floor, but here on the backside of the keep, there was no ground stretching out. Only cliffs and the sea so far down there, crashing on the rocks. When he closed his eyes, all he could smell was the sea, all he could hear was the rhythmic crash of the waves. It was the closest to the docks in Antiva that he could have ever wished for.

He knew which room he should pick. He knew which one was the better choice.

That didn't stop him from locating the key— tucked right under the pillow by a thoughtful member of Levi's family— and locking the room before he headed back to get his things.

Tomorrow would be a busy day with the Joinings and Zevran ensuring that Alistair was not, as had seemingly become the standard, drunk or nearly drunk by the time that evening rolled around, but for now, he could focus on his own things, on the trinkets he'd managed to collect during their travels. He could focus on anything other than that damnable Warden-blue.


End file.
